


Liquid Confidence

by Mishka10



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Hand Jobs, Jealous Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Mild intoxication, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-07
Updated: 2020-06-07
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:41:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24586273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mishka10/pseuds/Mishka10
Summary: "blood thrumming through his veins, a wondrous drumbeat driving him on, he flirts and winks and smiles, catching every eye he can as he dances through the bar. Feels Geralt’s eyes on him the entire time, the Witcher’s gaze hot and heavy on the back of his neck, only working to spurn him on further."Sometimes Jaskier can be a bit of a tease, but at least he knows it.Geralt isn't having a good time, until he is, he really really is.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 1
Kudos: 121





	Liquid Confidence

He’s drunk. not _drunk_ drunk. But… tipsy. The kind of pleasant drunk that fills your body with a lively and comforting warmth, cheeks flushed, world on fire, but in the best of ways.

You feel everything, every sensation, every brush of skin every touch. You feel it and it feels amazing.

That’s the kind of drunk he is. The kind of drunk that make you feel well and truly alive.

Alive and free and limitless.

Gods, does he feel limitless. Untouchable, amazing, he could do anything he damn well pleased.

Perhaps that’s why he does it. He knows that’s why he does it. blood thrumming through his veins, a wondrous drumbeat driving him on, he flirts and winks and smiles, catching every eye he can as he dances through the bar. Feels Geralt’s eyes on him the entire time, the Witcher’s gaze hot and heavy on the back of his neck, only working to spurn him on further.

He knows he is playing a devilish game, one that just makes him feel all the more alive. 

The buzz of the drink fills his veins, makes him feel so light and airy and wonderous.

Words rolling off his tongue with the ease he could only hope for when sober, songs, sonnets and half-sung complements alike. He likes the complements, likes watching the reactions he gets. From the rosy read blush of the bar maid, to the deep and hearty laugh of one of its patrons, the large man throwing back his head in laughter at Jaskier’s advances.

He laughs along with him, light and joyous and free, before dancing off to find another to flirt with.

He finds himself drawn to a table, the men at it are young, rowdy. One in particular catches his eye, clearly eyeing Jaskier over the rim of his beer glass.

He all but sails over, hips swaying, instrument swinging heavy and somewhat carelessly in his hands. He swings round, singing to the man, throws out a cheeky wink, a bite of the lip, friendly smile.

The man smiles back, a pretty smirk playing across his face.

The smile alights the warmth in his veins, burning excitement surging through him.

He swings in low, murmuring the next lines into the man’s ear. The man is stunning up close, soft, clear skin, glittering eyes, a truly enchanting sent, bright and citrusy. He hears the man sigh, high and breathy, turn ever so slightly, so Jaskier’s lips brush just inches from his skin. He feels it, the phantom touch, light, so light and soft and yet so real and there.

Here’s a heavy thump from the side of the room, eyes flicking over in time to see Geralt raise from his table, mug slammed down, spilling the ale.

Geralt doesn’t look at him, pushing his way out of the pub, slipping through the back door, eyes set forward, determinedly not looking towards Jaskier.

He feels his stomach twist ever so slightly, bubbled joy turning sour. He darts up, away from the table, headed for the door. He slips through the crowd, light and easy, head spinning, steps rapid but clumsy, hip checks the occasional table, but keeps going.

He pushes open the door, feeling the rough wood under his hand, hard and grainy. Lets his thumb slid over it as the door slides open, savouring the feeling. Gasps at the wave of cold air that hits him like a wave. He shivers at the feeling of the chilled air against his bright and flushed skin.

Geralt is easy to find, barely down the alley, leaning against the wall, eyes fallen closed, a frustrated growl curling on his lips.

But that’s not what interests Jaskier, not where his eyes are drawn. His eyes instead drift lower, landing on the prominent bulge growing in the Witcher’s pants.

He stops short. Brain short circuiting, vision focusing in on that one spot. He had intended to march directly over there, demand to know what Geralt had thought he was doing, disrupting Jaskier’s performance, but now…

He pauses, leans back against the door frame, body heavy, set to observe before he disrupts the Witcher. He assumes the man hasn’t noticed him yet, having not looked up when he pushed through the door. The man’s senses no doubt dampened by ale, the same as his own.

His head lolls against the door frame, watching as Geralt runs a hand down his chest, slow and heavy, fingers coming to brush over the top of his trousers. Fingers jump lower, cupping the bulge, giving it a gentle squeeze.

He sees the Witcher groan, head thrown back against the wall, fingers squeezing again, firmer this time.

He holds back his own groan at the site, cheeks heating up, flushing a deeper red. He bites his lip, holding in a whimper, not wanting to ruin the moment, alert Geralt to his presence. He knows he shouldn’t be doing this, should slip back inside, unseen, unknown, no harm done. Or at the very least alert Geralt to his presence, let Geralt know he is no longer alone.

He doesn’t.

He hears Geralt growl, low and deep, feels himself shutter at the sound.

The Witcher shifts, flicks open the first button of his own pants, hand sliding down into them.

Jaskier shifts against the doorframe, staring. He gulps, unable to draw his eyes away from the Witcher.

Geralt groans again, head tipping forward, shaggy white hair falling over his face. He watches as Geralt thrusts, hips moving forward ever so slightly, the shallow movements enough to break Jaskier’s brain.

The whimper slips out from between his lips before he can stop it.

Geralt’s eyes snap open, hips instantly stilled, hand slipping free, head flicking over, eyes staring, piercing into Jaskier.

Shit. He swallows under the stare. Takes a breath, the booze in his veins suddenly relighting, figures, fuck it, nothing to lose now.

He pushes off the doorframe, slow and heavy, licks his lips, staring down Geralt in return.

A frustrated growl pulls on the corner of Geralt’s lips, eyes dark. Jaskier shivers, hopes they are dark with lust and not just rage. He takes a daring step forward, feet more unsteady than he would have liked, but pushes on forward anyway.

The Witcher growls out his name, a deep, gravely, “Jaskier,” sounding so loud in the quiet that had fallen between them.

He hums, finally coming to a stop in front of Geralt, lets his eyes run slowly down Geralt’s body, eyes once again settling on the bulge filling the Witcher’s pants.

He smiles at the site, reaching out to run a hand down Geralt’s annoyingly still clothed chest, stopping before he reaches the bulge, still staring at with keen desire. The fake, fuelled confidence of ale still bubbling in his veins allowing him to murmur out a cheeky, “impressive, is that for me?”

He hears Geralt groan, growl out another, irritated, warning, “Jaskier.”

He hums, hand sliding back up Geralt’s chest, moving to flick open the top of Geralt’s shirt buttons, whispers, “I know you were watching me.” He slides free another button, revealing just a sliver of flesh below, moves down to open the next one.

Geralt’s hand catches his before he gets the chance, growls out his name once more “Jaskier…” Geralt sighs “your drunk.”

He huffs, blows the hair from his eyes, tugging his hand free, to rest it against Geralt’s chest once more, “I’m comfortable.”

Geralt snorts, eyebrow raised.

“You were watching me.”

The statement earns him an irritated snort, an attempted lie of, “I wasn’t-”

“I know you were, there’s no point trying to deny it."

Geralt growls, teeth bared, but offers the briefest of nods. Short, sharp and direct. Enough confirmation for him, enough to slide open another button, smile at the broad chest slowly being revealed beneath. Geralt growls again, recapturing his wrist.

He stares up at the man, cocks his head, questioningly, eyes darting to Geralt’s lips, before pushing up to press a messy kiss against them. Geralt lets it happen, stilling for a moment before leaning down, pressing back.

He moans at the pressure, at the warm softness of Geralt’s mouth.

He pulls free his hand from Geralt’s grip once more, moves to cup Geralt’s face, pull the man in closer. Moaning in pleasure and contentment when Geralt relents, pressing in closer.

He lets his other hand sneak down, slowly bushing across the Witcher’s chest to discover the bulge between Geralt’s legs.

He feels Geralt’s cock through the thick material of his pants, runs his fingers along it, giving it a testing squeeze, smiling against the man’s lips when he feels Geralt’s cock twitch in response.

Geralt pulls back at that, a growl rumbling deep in his throat, bites out a sharp, “Jaskier.”

He raises an eyebrow, drawls out a responding, “Ger-alt.”

He stares up at Geralt, offering a challenging look.

Geralt huffs, rolls his eyes, but doesn’t push the hand away.

Jaskier smiles in response, pressing in against the Witcher. He feels warm, so wonderfully warm, warm and comfortable and wonderful. His skin was alight, every part pressed against Geralt, a soft, warm tingling flooding his body.

He sighs in contented comfort, rests his head against Geralt’s chest for a moment, eyes flicking up to look at Geralt’s face through half lidded eyes, offering up a soft smile. He shifts, pressing up for another needy kiss. Uses it to distract the Witcher as he quickly reaches into Geralt’s pants, deft fingers reaching in and curling around Geralt’s cock.

Geralt gives a surprised grunt at the action, cock twitching once again in Jaskier’s hand, but doesn’t pull away, instead raising a hand to cup Jaskier’s face, thumb rubbing gentle circles against Jaskier’s cheek.

He sighs again at the touch, so soft and comfortable, offers another gentle squeeze to Geralt’s cock, feels the Witcher shift in his grip. Geralt growls in response, nipping at Jaskier’s lower lip.

He presses up, as far as he can into Geralt’s space, rolls his hips, gasping in delight when the movement rewards him with a moment of wonderous pressure against his own cock. He shifts, moving to start to rub himself against the Witcher, hips hitching and rolling against the man, all the while continuing to stroke Geralt’s cock.

He moans again, eyes falling shut, face pressed into the crock of Geralt’s neck. The Witcher rumbles in response, making him smile against Geralt’s skin at the sound.

He feels Geralt shift, his head falling back against the wall behind them, eyes also sliding shut. He hears Geralt’s breath pick up, becoming quick and airy.

His smile grows, hand speeding up, trying to tease the Witcher to release.

Geralt huffs. Shifts, hips moving in shallow thrusts against Jaskier’s hand. Jaskier offers a rewarding squeeze at the movement, doubling down on his own effort of grinding against the Witcher.

He hears Geralt’s breath hitch beautifully, the sound sending a shiver down his back. He sighs out a moan, tilts his head to mouth against Geralt’s neck, feeling the man shutter in surprise from the contact.

He hums against Geralt’s skin, gently licking and nipping at it. Hears the man groan again in response. Geralt’s movements increase, quick, desperate thrusts into Jaskier’s hand. He shutters again, and Jaskier knows he must be close.

A final, determined squeeze and the Witcher comes, with a final, breathy, “Jaskier,” spilling from his lips. 

Jaskier moans in response, hand finally slipping free from Geralt’s pants, letting himself rut in desperate abandonment against the Witcher, chasing his own release.

Geralt growls once more at the movement, the feeling of it rumble through the man’s chest enough to finally push Jaskier over the edge.

He comes with a surprised gasp, leaning heavily against Geralt, hips still shifting and stuttering against the man.

He sighs, resting his hot and sweaty head against Geralt, huffs out another breath against the man’s neck. Geralt hums in response, a wonderfully contented sound, hand coming to rest gently on Jaskier’s back.

The Witcher grumbles when he decides to press another kiss to the man’s jaw, cocking his head away from the touch. Geralt sighs, looking over at him, drawls out a slow and thoughtful, “You are… a nuisance.”

He snorts, letting himself step back, away from the direct warmth of Geralt’s body, leaning comfortably against the wall beside the man. He sighs, drags a heavy hand down his flushed and sweat soaked face, murmurs out a lazy, “am I?”

Geralt lets out an exacerbated groan, “an absolute nuisance, you’ve been nothing but an annoyance all evening.”

He can’t help but smile at that, “ah now, I knew you were watching.” He pushes slowly off the wall, running a hand along Geralt’s chest once more, leaning in to whisper into the Witcher’s ear, “and I know you loved it.”


End file.
